Help for the Haunted(103)

“I cooked it earlier today.”

The woman’s muffled voice from inside the house startled me. I looked up to see that I was beneath a small window. Now that I was paying attention, I heard water running, the clatter of dishes and silverware. The sounds faded as I moved into the yard, keeping near the fence, until I reached the shed. I couldn’t hear anything from this vantage point, but I saw them through a picture window, seated at a table. The man was bald and wore a white T-shirt that hugged the bulky muscles of his arms and shoulders. I watched as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes, then the man made a quick sign of the cross before shoveling food in his mouth without so much as looking up. The woman didn’t eat more than a few bites and simply stared across the table at him, until finally standing to clear the dishes.

As they moved from the window, I returned to the side of the house where I’d be able to hear what was going on inside. At first there was only more of her humming while the water ran. From somewhere deeper in the house came the sound of footsteps moving about. A toilet flushed. A door closed. All the while that woman kept humming until the footsteps moved into the kitchen, and I heard his deep voice telling her, “Not that song.”

“Sorry. All day long, I find myself halfway through before I realize. I try not—”

“Well, try harder.”

She fell quiet, before asking, “Don’t you ever wonder?”

“No. Not anymore. I’ve let it all go, and you need to do the same.”

I stood there waiting for something more when without warning a porch light snapped on in the backyard, flooding the cement patio with light. I froze there in the shadows a moment as the back door swung open and the man stepped from the house, carrying an overstuffed garbage bag. He moved directly to where I stood by those trash cans, so I turned and slipped quickly through the gate. Out on the street, I paused along the sidewalk, looking back to see him drop the bag into a can and press down the lid, then start dragging the can toward the road.

The narrow front lawns in the neighborhood and so few trees left no easy places to duck out of sight. If I stepped behind a car in a neighboring driveway, I worried someone might see from a window and snap on their light too. So instead I simply walked down the street as though I belonged there. Before I got too far, I crossed to the far side and turned back in order to get a better look at him. He was no longer dressed in just a T-shirt but wore a police uniform, the buttons of his shirt still undone.

While dragging the second can to the curb, the man glanced up and caught sight of me across the street. He lifted his hand to his forehead, visor style, and asked in the same gruff voice he used to speak to that woman, “What are you doing out here?”

I couldn’t tell if he recognized me, though I certainly didn’t recognize him. “I’m just . . . here,” I said.

“Are you on your way home? And do your folks know where you are?”

“Yes and yes,” I said.

“Well, get there safe.”

He turned away from me and finished up his business with those cans before retreating to the house and snapping off the light out back. So I was a stranger to him after all, I thought, walking to the corner and wondering what to do now. A few minutes later, the roar of an engine filled the quiet air, and I glanced back to see the police car come to life and roll out of the driveway. Windows down, I heard the static squawk of the police radio inside. When he passed me, the officer looked my way and waved.

The moment his taillights disappeared around the corner, I turned back again, feeling braver now that it was just the woman alone. Knock on the door, I told myself. Ask her point-blank who she is and why she has been coming to Dundalk. I was about to work up the nerve when I saw the garbage cans. I knew from the times when vandals tipped over our trash that all sorts of personal information could be revealed that way.

I looked up at the house. A glow came from the windows still, but the curtains were drawn. Quickly, I lifted the lid of the nearest can and tore into the plastic, then held my breath and reached in among the crumpled papers and dirty napkins and balled foil.

It didn’t take long before I pulled out an envelope that offered more information: Nicholas and Emily Sanino, 104 Tidewater Road, Rehoboth, DE. I tried to recall if I’d ever heard those names before.

“Can I help you, young lady?”

The sudden voice led me to drop the trash can lid. If it had been the old metal kind, there would have been a loud clatter. Instead, the plastic made a dull thud at my feet. I looked at her and searched for the right words. None came so I just held up the stained envelope. “Are you Emily Sanino?”

The woman stepped nearer, swooping down for the garbage can lid, placing it back on the can. Her face, I saw, looked softer up close. In the streetlight, I could see a web of faint lines around her eyes and mouth. She snatched the envelope from my hand. “Who are you? And what are you doing out here in the dark digging through our garbage?”

“I’m Sylvie,” I told her. “Sylvie Mason.”

The woman was pressing down on the lid to be sure it was secured, but the moment I spoke my name, she stopped. A hand went to her mouth. “Rose’s sister?”

I nodded.

“How did you—” Her voice faltered. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to find out who you are.”

Emily Sanino stared at me, considering what I’d said, before asking how exactly I had found her. When I explained, she let out a long breath. “Does your sister, or anyone else, know you’re here?”